Footprints in the Snow

It has snowed twice in Saint Louis over the past ten days.

The first time, five inches were expected, but the clouds only delivered a light powdering over the streets coupled with some ice. I ordered some Yaktrax that were delivered the day before the storm and wore them for a morning run. The Yaktrax allowed good traction and I was never close to slipping.

As I darted back and forth along the Riverfront Greenway, I noted the tracks that my footprints left behind in the snow. These markers signify that someone ran through the inclement weather, though they’ll also melt and disappear in a day’s time.

Time will eventually erase my footprints, as it does all things.

I had abandoned most, if not all, of the athletic footprints I’ve left behind. As an elite level swimmer I won hundreds of medals and trophies, some of them at the NCAA, national, and international level. I also lost most of them, if not all of them. My reasoning for tossing them is that I never felt it’s healthy to cling to something in the past. I want to constantly be forging ahead, and I aim to direct my thoughts more on what’s next than on archived text.

I’m actually keeping some of my latest running medals though. Last weekend I ran a personal best 15k, and within the race I had a personal best 5k and 10k. Improvement is fun at any age; it’s also possible at any age, though not in any activity.

Now that I’m more than 15 years removed from swimming, I see how memories and times steadily fade. I found myself Googling some of my past accomplishments that I had forgotten. How did I forget that I was voted most valuable swimmer after my freshman year of college? I think I forgot about that within a year of finishing school. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but it’s interesting that it happened. I see now that having a visible signifier of some of these things may keep them in my memory longer, and without memory we have no identity.

I recall visiting my old college coach in 2015. My final record (for an 800 yard freestyle relay) had just been broken; it had stood on a wall of my old collegiate swimming pool for more than seven years. At the time it was an American and NCAA record. He had the record in his office, a long strip of cardboard that was previously affixed to the pool record board. He gave the cardboard strip to me. I’ve since lost it and wish I hadn’t.

The cynic in me may say that a medal is nothing but a chunk of material to be ultimately tossed by someone else when I’m permanently gone. Everything that remains after I’m gone, in fact, would be a heap of donations and disposal for those who are left behind. There is some truth to this.

However, the optimist says that a medal is a footprint left in the snow, and by maintaining it the snow may melt a bit slower. It’s true that the footprint will fade, but I might as well cherish it while it remains. One doesn’t need to obsess over something to cherish it. The trash heap can wait a few more decades.

Our footprints in the snow are nice reminders of great adventures.

Healing Bones

I had my followup visit to the Orthopedic this week. I’m in what I would consider the “later stages” of healing a broken collarbone.

I was told that the bone is about 80% healed. The x-rays still show some hairline fractures that need to close, but the actual break is callused and together. There is some pain, and still some range of motion to restore, but the trajectory is positive.

I’m continuing with another six weeks of physical therapy (two times per week, one hour per session). I’ll also continue with my at-home exercises. I anticipate feeling near 100% within a few weeks.

I’ve realized over the past two months one brutality of civilization: it doesn’t wait for a broken bone to heal. The work doesn’t stop, nor do the chores or daily obligations. The journey towards reclaiming your health can be a lonely one: no one fully understands your battle as you do.

I may participate in a group run, for example, but no one else would realize that a cold gust of wind can penetrate my bone and cause deep pain. Nor would they know that I spent the previous 8 weeks just trying to make my right arm operational.

It is the same with the little struggles I’ve had. It was more than a month before I could physically tie my own shoes, drive a car, and lift an object over my head. Putting on clothes was a struggle, as was showering. It’s amazing just how much you can lose when just one bone breaks.

That’s how it should be though. That’s life. We have things to shoulder and always will. If everyone and everything around me stopped because I was in pain, there would be no obstacle to overcome, and therefore no triumphant feeling when the journey out of pain is finally complete.

Sometimes the only option is to embrace the maelstrom.

Range of Motion

With each passing day I find myself regaining a little more range of motion in my right arm. Recovering from a collarbone break is a long process that requires patience, but patience is not a skill I naturally have. I’d like to snap my fingers and poof, find myself magically at 100% health. Healing is not always measurable in days, however.

I heard an interesting metaphor for the process of aging: you are essentially stuck in quicksand, and at some point you will fully sink. The most you can ask for is a few tools to shovel the sand away temporarily. Some of these “tools” include diet, exercise, and sleep. Without them, you’ll sink faster.

“Just keep moving” tends to be my own mantra. Or as the bone break taught me, “Use it or lose it.” Four weeks in a sling cost me a great deal of mobility that will take awhile to regain.

To think that I was set back so far from just a month in a sling is eye opening. A life of inertia is surely crippling to one’s range of motion. I see it often in the office: the typical office employee could never dream of running one mile, nonetheless 26 miles. Heck, I’m not sure most can jog 400 meters comfortably. Can the typical employee even kick up his or her feet? It seems doubtful unless supplemented with some sort of cocaine-like stimulant beforehand. Granted, many do not care, as money and career are supposedly the priority, which culture does preach. I also note though that most are oblivious to the gravity of what they’ve lost. I’ll choose mobility any day.

A 40-year-old sedentary type and a 40-year-old routine exerciser are not biologically the same age range. This I’ve seen visibly. Their vitality and appearance are vastly different, almost as though they are not both Homo sapiens.

At running events, for example, it is common to see a 50-year-old capable of running fast speeds for hours at a time. It barely seems possible when first introduced to such feats. I remember running the mile as a child, for example, and winning by default simply because most of the kids couldn’t run the whole thing. Yet it is easy when swept in the excitement of such an event to believe that the norm is to cover vast distances, often at a quick base, with just your feet, and to do so well into your later years. An office will remind you that it is not the norm in America. The norm is a struggle up a flight of stairs. The norm is a pained shuffle from the car to the desk. The norm is a drive-thru food order, or these days, a phone app food delivery service.

As I write I realize the magnitude of my own desire to “just keep going”. Above I mentioned quicksand. Most nightmares I’ve ironically had since childhood involve running, but feeling slowed, or sinking in quicksand. In nightmares that involve swimming, the pool is often too dark for me to see and I quickly find myself lost. Or maybe my goggles leaked water to blind me. This doesn’t surprise me because nothing scares me more than stopping. I don’t necessarily mean stopping a daily exercise routine either. I mean stopping movement. Stopping the bikepacking adventures, the runs, the ocean swims, and the occasional game.

If given the choice, I’ll choose motion every time. Give me a shovel and I’ll see how long I can stay above the quicksand.

Die to Live

Yesterday evening I cleaned one of my two bicycles. The endeavor was painful because one of my arms is both weak and injured. I live in an apartment and use Muc-Off products to make the bike shine and glisten. I then topped off the tires with sealant (I ride tubeless) and oiled the chain with dry lube.

I am preparing myself mentally to ride the bike again, though I am still far from fully healing after my collarbone break.

I woke early this morning and ran for about an hour and fifteen minutes at an easy pace. I then did an hour of strength training with resistance bands (mostly lower body excercises such as banded squats) and foam rolled to promote mobility.

By the end of all these activities I found myself pretty languished, and my work day hadn’t started. Dawn barely broke. I find myself pushing forward regardless. I am preparing for a marathon.

Why do we endurance athlete types push ourselves to such long distances, day in and day out? Well, I have a theory: over the course of our lives, we accumulate a hefty weight of baggage, which we have to carry around with us in our daily affairs. The added weight worsens the already-debilitating effects of gravity. Some of us have accumulated so much baggage that we barely know what resides beneath the layers.

So we find a challenging activity like running or cycling, and in the back of our mind we want to see “just how far we can go.” Fatigue accumulates, mile by mile, and the layers of baggage seem to fall off, chunk by chunk. And maybe what’s left on the long run is who we truly are. Or maybe what lies beneath is the answer to a question we didn’t realize needed asking.

The question is, “What do I need to do?”

And the answer is, “Live.”

And in a nutshell, it’s our way of dying a little to live a little.

Eating Scones and Breaking Bones

I’ve read that it’s healthy to eat foods while they’re in season. This fall I interpreted that to mean that I should consume extra pumpkin flavored beverages and foods at Starbucks. Pumpkin spice lattes and pumpkin scones became regulars on Saturday morning through the months of October and November. Apparently this isn’t how you’re supposed to interpret “eat foods while they’re in season.” Oh well. I have no regrets.

On a more serious note, I had what may end up being the bike crash to end my bike crashes.

I was pedaling my road bicycle down the Riverfront Trail yesterday and turned into the Riverfront Park. Maybe because I’ve made this turn a hundred times in the last year, my eyes were focused forward for a moment, rather than on the path beneath the wheels. It turned out to be a critical moment to avert my gaze from the path.

Though the sun shone and the winds were calm that morning, a storm had hit the day before with severe winds. I didn’t take that into account. Some intense debris littered the road, included a large tree branch.

My front tire hit the tree branch and I flipped forward, sideways, and upside-down. I felt my head slam against the road first. I was wearing a helmet, but the force was enough to whip my head and nearly knock me out.

Then my shoulder hit and I immediately felt my collarbone break. I also heard something that you never want to hear come from your own body: “snap!”

Finally my hip landed with a loud thud. The pain was intense, and I knew that I was in very bad shape.

I was wearing a helmet, luckily, but I was still dazed. I was not sure what city I was living in or where I was going, and suddenly the trail seemed foreign to me. I was not sure what I did the past few days either. I just felt that I had to turn around and get home, wherever that was.

Due to the adrenaline and lack of logical thought, I hopped back on the bicycle and rode back. It was not for twenty minutes that I knew where I was or where I was riding, but somehow I still rode the correct direction.

It was an hour later, after X-Rays and a CT scan, that I learned that I somehow managed to ride the bike home with a broken collarbone and a mild concussion.

The adrenaline wore off the moment I stepped back in my apartment, and it was then that my right arm lost mobility. It was my right collarbone that broke. The pain surged quickly thereafter.

Later, at a nearby Total Access Urgent Care, I learned the full impact of the injuries quickly.

“Yep, that’s broken,” the X-ray technician said as he glanced at the first photo of my shoulder and collarbones. “It’ll be for the doctor to say, but the good news is, it looks like it’s the good kind of break.”

“There’s a good kind of break?” I said. I assumed all breaks were bad kinds.

“Yeah,” he said, “The kind that doesn’t need surgery.”

It turned out he was correct. The bone was broken but not displaced, meaning the bone would heal after two months in a sling and some physical therapy.

I regained my mental senses quickly and all of my memories returned. For that I’m also thankful.

I’ve had some nasty crashes over the past year. This was the worst one; it was enough, I think, to break me mentally. It raised a conundrum: how do I keep doing something I enjoy, when I seem to have a penchant for serious injuries while doing it? I’ve never been injured while running, after all.

Are my cycling days over? It’s difficult to say. I should be honest here though: they might be over. I have no interest in breaking the clavicle again. Certainly my cycling days are over for the remainder of the year. With bone breaks, the best thing you can do is nothing.

I guess it’s inevitable that these sorts of doubts flood my mind after such a crash. Maybe I’m just not meant to be a cyclist. Maybe I just have to commit to slow and leisurely rides from now on. What will I do?

I may feel young, but I know this bone will not heal as quickly as it would have twenty years ago.

Hopefully I am back on a bicycle eventually. To what capacity I’ll ride again, I’m not sure. Some cyclists bounce back quickly after bone breaks. They heal, and then they pedal with extra fervor. They love the activity. All pain is worth it. Suffering is hardly a reason to quit. Neither is a broken collarbone.

But I am not those cyclists. A part of me feels I’ve had enough bone breaks and ligament sprains to last a lifetime.

Every injury I’ve ever had has arrive via bicycle. You can only fall so hard when you’re on a run. You can only break so badly. On a bicycle, though, it doesn’t seem to be a matter of if your collarbone breaks in a crash, but how badly it breaks.

I guess time will tell what’s in store for me next. Though I feel down, I don’t feel “out.” I’ll focus on eating well, sleeping, and healing. There’s still life to enjoy.

I guess time will tell whether I hope on the bike again.

The Origins of Wind

I woke up just before dawn, stretched, and went for a brief jog that cut straight through downtown and then looped back to my apartment. I haven’t done much jogging the past few weeks; after a few half-marathons, I decided to spend November doing other exercises and activities. You can overdo anything, after all.

The weather forecast never indicated rain, though the skies were gaunt and the air had the metallic scent of an impending storm. Puddles blotched the streets from rainfall the night before.

A torrential downpour of rain slammed down on me shortly after I crossed the St Louis Arch. Gusts of wind gained intensity and lashed rain against my face. The wind, in my imagination, seemed capable of leveling each building and tree, and finally rendering downtown a pile of rubble.

Finally, I arrived back at my apartment, totally drenched.

I thought about when I was young and I always wondered if wind had an origin. In my mind, there was some faraway land, owned by wind’s creator, initiating these gusts and storms. Or did wind just appear out of thin air?

Obviously there is a scientific explanation for wind, but some things in life are best left a mystery. The unknown opens the imagination, whereas explanations kill it.

The rain stopped about as abruptly as it arrived. There was something other-worldly about it.

The escapist in me looks for these “other-worldly” signs. The day before, I crossed a rest station on the Riverfront Trail, and it reminded me of a train station. Suddenly I imagined the train station from Spirited Away that Chahiro took to visit the witch’s twin sister. It was the same train station occupied by various spirits, navigating a strange purgatorial world.

Would I take this haunted train, and would it take me on some fantastic adventure, away from the consumerism and hustle culture that seem to prevail in the city?

Spirited Away is an amazing movie. Who were these spirits, and where were they going? Brilliantly, the movie doesn’t tell us much. Like the origins of wind, it’s best left a mystery.

The Halloween Half-Marathon

Following my San Diego half marathon, I needed about a week’s worth of physical recovery. The few jogs I did were light, easy, and brief. My legs were sore.

I couldn’t rest for too long though, because I signed up to run the Saint Louis GO! Halloween half-marathon just three weeks after San Diego. Running two half-marathons in three weeks is asking a lot from a body that has never run an event at that distance before.

So I took an easy week, followed it with a more traditional training week, and then followed that with a “taper” week.

I don’t consider taper to be recovery, though there is some recovery involved. It is a reduction in training volume, but the training conducted still has a focus on race-specific movement. Taper is the final tuning of the instrument before the symphony. The musician has already rehearsed and the dexterity has already been earned through hours of practice; there are just a few necessary tweaks needed to deliver a rousing melody at the right pitch.

As running is somewhat new to me, I had no idea if my plan would work, or if it was feasible to run a second decent half marathon within weeks of the first one.

Physically, I felt sluggish and lethargic until about three days before the Halloween half-marathon. I had about three days of decent sleep leading into the event and ate mostly natural foods between my events, however. It wasn’t until two days before the Halloween half that I believed it could be a pretty good run; I woke up one morning and suddenly felt like my usual self.

The hours leading to the start were a blur. I arrived at the race with my girlfriend (who ran it with me), stretched, had an energy gel, and lined up near the start line. I felt loose and relaxed. I promised myself that I would not take this race out too fast (I was out way, way too fast on the previous one).

The challenge with this event was that it mixed 5k, 10k, and half marathon participants in the same racing pool. So as bodies propelled forward at the start, I had no idea who was running what.

Another challenge was that this event featured much more elevation than the San Diego event via some brutally steep hills. Whereas my San Diego race had about 80 feet total of elevation gain, this was estimated to have 500 feet of elevation gain.

I felt the elevation during the first mile, which was up a steep incline. Runners shot forward at fast cadences.

Hold back, I told myself. Just hold back.

As my calves tightened and the hill ahead of me steepened, I slowed my cadence. People flew past me. This was alarming. The race was just starting, and I was falling behind. I decided I’d let them take the lead here. This later proved to be the right move. It was only one mile of more than thirteen, and were plenty more hills to challenge me.

I passed my first mile marker at 6:26. This was about 20 seconds slower than my first mile in San Diego. I felt fresh, though, in spite of the early hill. I had 12 miles to make up ground.

I accelerated downhill, letting my longer stride give an advantage as I loped downward, and passed a few runners.

Mile three saw another hill, this one longer and equally as steep. My lungs heaved more than I wanted them to. I knew that I was still off of my San Diego pace, but still, I had to let myself slow a little. So I did. Then, like after the first mile, I accelerated downhill.

Mile four, mile five, mile six. I made no moves. I didn’t accelerate, or really do anything interesting. I just sort of plodded forward. But my pace was pretty good, and that was enough.

At one point near mile five, my pace faltered and several runners passed me. I felt my legs tighten and my hear pump louder. Then I arrived at an aid station and grabbed some water. I recognized one of the volunteers at the station from my running group.

“Let’s go Matt, you’re doing great!” He shouted. Suddenly my pain evaporated and I accelerated forward. I was back on pace.

I am Virgo, so I studied the course before the event. I knew that the hills only encompassed the first six miles of the race. The next seven miles would be relatively flat. A successful race, I decided, would be dependent on feeling fresh for the final seven miles.

Mile six proved to be devastating. It was the steepest hill yet. Winding and twisting along streets that cut through a rural Missouri landscape, it stretched brutally upward and seemed to have no end. Was this a hill or a mountain? My pace slowed and alarmingly so. My legs grew heavy and suddenly it was like one of those bad dreams where you’re running from a threat, but standing in place. For a brief moment in time I was a full two minutes slower than my goal pace. A runner passed me. Still, the fatigue was mounting. I knew I had to risk a bad time and slow down.

Then we reached the hill’s apex, and I realized that I was quickly recovering, and before I knew it I wasn’t hurting all that bad. I accelerated downhill again and found myself running shoulder-to-shoulder with the runner who had just passed me.

“How you doing?” He said. I was out of breath and managed to say, “Not bad.” I’m sure my face said otherwise. That hill hurt. I felt confident that I had enough energy to finish the race, but damn… it hurt.

I regained the lead over him, determined not to let up my quickening tempo, but heard his feet padding the earth close behind me. We passed mile seven. Six miles to go. Now the race begins.

I checked my watch. I was now even with my San Diego running pace. In that event, my pace had slowed down by mile four. I was relatively steady today and making ground on that race. This meant I had a shot at a best time.

Mile 8, mile 9, mile 10. Flat earth ahead of me, edged by trees and walls of their yellow and orange foliage. Every mile looks like the one before. My legs steadily tightening. My cadence steadily slowing. What was effortless thirty minutes ago was suddenly a struggle. Suddenly the aches in my calves from the earlier hills are in pain. My breathing is heavier. Here we go. Just focus on getting through this mile.

Mile 11. I’m still in this. I no longer have an acceleration in me; the fatigue is too much. It’s a matter of maintaining pace now. I hear the familiar runner behind me speaking to me.

“Thanks,” he says. “Your pace is bringing out the best in me.” He’s hurting too.

“Likewise,” I reply. There are no losers here. I love the camaraderie. We want each other to succeed. “We’ll get to the finish and hug,” I say. And so we run on.

Mile 12. Where is my mind? It’s on my legs. I’m tightening too much. The pain is getting intense in my calves, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I try to change my running form a little so that I land on my heels, not my forefeet. Anything to keep the pain at bay. But that doesn’t work either, so I stick with what’s natural for me.

I’m forcing myself to keep pace, but my pace is still slowing. However, it’s not slowing as much as it did in San Diego.

The last mile. My running rival passes me. I have to let him go. I’m taxed. To try and stay ahead risks injury. Better to just chug along. Besides, if I leave a little reserve in the tank, I’ll have enough for another best time on the next run. But damn it hurts. My mind starts screaming, “Just walk it in!” But I know I can’t do that. I’m so close to making it. I won’t let it count for myself if I walk.

Suddenly a left turn and I see the inflatable arch at the finish. I’m right there. One more runner passes me, and I notice it’s someone in my running group. He’s a great guy, and I’m glad he makes it. I spring to life and pick up my cadence. I run through the finish line, then hunch over. I’m in serious pain; the final mile was a blur. Everything hurts. I can’t pinpoint any exact source of agony. I high five my running group partner. I exchange a hug with the other runner who passed me on that final mile.

“This is your first year running?” He says. “Damn, you’re a natural at these things.”

My final time was more than a minute faster than it was in San Diego. And in spite of a slowdown over the final mile, I paced this one better. It was a best time. More of a struggle, but a best time.

I finished second overall in my age group. Not bad for a swimmer! And there were over 800 participants.

I got a pumpkin pie as a prize. I then ate some donuts and had a latte. I made it. The season is over. The journey is complete.

My running quest ended with the fastest run of my life. I’m triumphant, or that’s how it feels. But what did I win? What happens after the curtains are drawn? Where to next? What’s the aftermath? What is the grand life epiphany? Have I solved some deeper existential crisis?

I have some water and note only my own worn body and a free pumpkin pie. But the fall air braces me and the smiles at the finish are contagious.

I wanted to prove that I could bounce back, that the car hit last year wouldn’t take me down, that I was still alive, and frankly, that I still had life inside of me. I wanted to prove that I’d return, and run farther and faster than I ever had in my life. This was a personal battle. I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about it. It’s a good thing I don’t, because running at these lengths is very, very personal.

My previously injured foot feels good. I feel good. I’ll take a few weeks off of running before prepping for the full marathon though.

Until next time!

Moving Forward to Go Backward

I personally find distance running to be a means of reversing course through the act of going forward. I think that’s why so many people discover their passion for it after the age of 30.

Endurance running is an act of discomfort, and potentially agony. When completely focused on each stride, on one’s breathing, and on the immediate environs, I believe distance running steadily rips off the facade that we created via adulthood.

Humanity never needed to run a long distance as fast as possible until relatively recently in history. Maybe it’s a draw now because there’s too much comfort in our lives. Maybe we’ve realized that comfort doesn’t necessarily lead to happiness, nor does comfort provide any important answers about our existence. A virtual meeting doesn’t make us “happier” than a real one, and an electronic purchase doesn’t make us “happier” than a trip to the mall.

So what do we do to rediscover meaning? We brutalize our legs and feet in half marathons, marathons, and ultra marathons.

I think back to the way I ran when I was young. Running was spontaneous and wild, a series of zigzags with no destination and only reckless abandon. It had no splits, required no heart rate monitor, was free of charge (all you needed was functional feet), and lacked a coach. It was always equipped with something many adult runners lack: a smile.

I miss those days and sadly know that it will now be difficult, if not impossible, to recapture them. I sign up for events and note my speed, my stride, my cadence, and my total time. I calculate, though I am conscious of my calculations. I push myself to exhaustion in an effort to reach some sort of zenith that really means nothing to anyone but me. And yet I still chase it.

This type or running, however, is fun in its own right. The chase is worthwhile, and I’m currently not sure why. And in this more predictable and calculated path forward, I try to bring back that wild youth, that gunslinger who was willing to dare a burst of speed up or downhill, willing to jump over a fallen log or stop and note the wildlife lurking in the underbrush, willing to deviate from all expectations. I try to revert back by going forward. So maybe the best I can hope for is a mixture of young and old.

Still, in spite of a watch on my wrist, with each additional mile I find myself hoping to rediscover the lost in me.

Circle

They say that life is a circle and we end it at the beginning, but with a different lens to view everything that we think we’ve already seen.

I find myself stretching for a Wednesday evening run with my training group. I’m 37 and one year removed from a bicycle crash that sidelined me for the final third of 2021.

I’m at the base of a long hill on Delmar Boulevard. I decide to run with a few individuals who are both fast and experienced. They ask what pace I intend to hold. “I’ll just try to hang with you guys,” I say. I don’t know whether I can. We’ll find out.

A long uphill slope toward the Centennial Greenway encompasses warmup. I’m feeling light and fresh. Ten minutes in and I barely break a sweat. At least I can warm up with these guys, I think.

We cross onto the Centennial Greenway and stretch for a bit. Then we’re off to the races and I’m holding 6 minutes per mile (3 minutes 45 seconds per km). The adrenaline from my competition gives me an added boost. My heart’s racing and my cadence is increasing. Keep your knees up, I keep telling myself. I know nothing about running technique or if this is even sound advice. I tell it to myself anyways; it’s just a reminder to keep my form.

Ten minutes go by and I’m running should-to-shoulder with the group. They’re surprised. So am I.

I’ve been here before. I’ve competed before, just not on land. Years ago, lap after lap, swimming against the best in the world at the Lee and Jones Jamal Swim Center in Austin, Texas. I trained and competed until I had nothing left physically and mentally to give to the sport of swimming. Then I swore off competition.

I ended my swimming career as a master of technique but began it as a blank slate. I’m back to the blank slate, but this time I’m on land, hitting it with high impact. The vibe is familiar. The racing is familiar. The cast is new. I like that.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Matt. I’ll keep you in check,” one of the runners barks at me. I get an energy boost and a desire to beat him. The old racing spirit is somewhere inside after all.

We’re forty minutes into our run and our pace is actually quickening. I check my pace. We’ve actually sped up by another 30 seconds per mile.

My midsection is tightening and I’m hyperventilating. I’m covered in sweat. I don’t know how long I can sustain this effort. Probably not much longer. I have to be close to maximizing my heartrate. My legs are tightening. My face is grimaced. Keep pace, I keep telling myself.

You’ve been here before. Competing, climbing. You swore you’d never do it again.

Thoughts of the early swimming days flood through me. Preparing for swim meets at age 12, at age 15. Stretching and studying competition. The endless hours chasing and being chased. The long climb from an overlooked age grouper to an NCAA Division 1 record holder.

It’s a different sport. I’m a different age. I retired from swimming in 2008, almost 15 years ago. I don’t understand running, at least not well, and not yet. I don’t even know if I’m any good, really, though I suspect I can improve a lot. That might be enough. The joy is there. If the joy is there, nothing else matters.

The run ends. Somehow, I won the session. I “fist bump” the other runners. It was an effort I never would have given had I been running alone. I’ve trained to the brink before. I know what it’s like. That’s a major advantage.

The added sense of camaraderie gives me an added sense of purpose and an added feeling of accomplishment. I haven’t felt that in a long time. It’s much more fun when you accomplish something with someone else. I almost forgot that I enjoy training with a group.

It’s a different sport and I’m in a different phase of life. I’m climbing, but I don’t know why, or what the destination is. I know there’s a marathon ahead. I know that I’m enjoying this process.

I also realize that somehow I arrived back at the start, albeit with a much different perspective of it all.

Soldier On

It seems fitting that Dave Mustaine, the frontman of legendary metal act Megadeth, just released what some critics are already calling his band’s best album since Countdown to Extinction. The guy has an endless supply of vigor and musical fervor. He’s survived decades in an industry that sees most rock acts dissolve in a blink. And if you thought that he might mellow with age, you were wrong. The new Megadeth album The Sick, The Dying… And The Dead! is as fast-tempo’d and furious as anything Megadeth has ever dropped.

Mustaine survived cancer; his purported 51 radiation treatments, coupled with the pandemic, seem to have redoubled his artistic flair, as well as his awareness of his own mortality.

One of my favorite tracks, Soldier On, is about the desire to persist in spite of anything, or anyone, that life hurdles at you. It’s about the simple need to keep going.

The song makes me think about why I embark on long runs. Why go so far? Why push past fatigue, mile after mile, hitting the earth with a force equal to up to five times the weight of my own body? Simply put, because it’s only when you exhaust yourself fully that you understand who you are. Maybe it’s another form of Tyler Durden’s treatment for materialism (“It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything”).

As the miles pass, the logical mind takes a back seat and a more primordial self helms the vehicle that is you. Your trivial anxieties and plannings for the future, your dreads and longings for the past, and all that’s left of your ego can seem to dissolve.

You’ve peeled every layer from the past that piled onto you over the years, and at the core is just an organic being attempting to persist, attempting to push forward, one step at a time. And that experience reveals an important part of what the core of your being actually wants: to soldier on.

Conversion to Machine

I enter age 37 with a desire to take a trip and get lost on a random adventure. In a banal daily work routine, which can feel like a constant slideshow of indistinguishable and bland virtual meetings, interactions seem progressively colder and more detached. Work hours pass in purgatorial fashion. All smiling is off-camera. All laughter is on mute. There is an agenda and we must tackle it. We must perform. There is no time for small talk. No time for warmth.

The conversion to machine is gradual and is predicated on the need for comfort.

I try to counter these dark feelings, which I write about freely here, with cycling. Cycling is purely for me, the most selfish of hobbies. Adults generally don’t give a damn that I can ride a bike really far. There’s no one to impress. It’s not like my old days as a swimmer, when I won to gain the adulation of everyone around me. I just find cycling fun. Adults are often too consumed with their own consumption to be concerned with activities involving movement. Cycling is my antidote to the soul sucking virus that is careerism.

Is there still a ghost in the adults of today, or has the spirit left the shell?

Virtual work means that jokes are followed by silence and emails are followed by a false sense of urgency.

“This is the new trend!” I’m told, but I note that the general population has gained misery, weight, and anxiety since the pandemic. There is always a trade-off for convenience. Faust doesn’t grant wishes without taking something in return.

Years ago, I was lost somewhere in Russia. It was a random trip I took while living in China. It’s a coastal city with a relatively friendly atmosphere.

Getting lost is actually pretty fun; cycling reminds me of that when I take a wrong turn. Trips remind me of that when I meander aimlessly through the foreign city streets. Adults hate being lost, but kids generally love it. Adults prefer predictability and assurance. A destination is the ultimate form of salvation for the worker. They want a linear path without bumps. Point A to Point B, and not a minute to waste.

Yet the white rabbit is always a slave to the queen, as Alice in Wonderland showed. But the modern adults wants pavement, an air conditioned environment, and a to-do list that forever grows, forever demanding haste. I cannot relate: I find solace in the rocky terrain of a faraway trail, where haste is revealed to be arbitrary.

I remember hiking Eagle’s Nest Hill in Vladivostok and quickly getting lost, somewhere off the trail due to a lack of focus, and not really caring. Time ceases to matter when there is no agenda. Can adults abandon agendas for awhile? Who cares if the paved route is far away? I remember being somewhere high, on a bluff, overlooking the city. So I still arrived at some interesting destination. It’s the randomness and unpredictability that I prefer. I was on the opposite side of the world, which is both thrilling and terrifying.

The computer, and its primary appendage the phone, is placed at the altar of the modern posh careerist. It demands of its flock a new form of faith and a false set of promises. Mortality can be avoided, it says, with the swipe of a credit card, the pop of a pill bottle, or the adherence to a politician. Swiping requires money, which requires work, which requires sitting and staring and hurrying.

May we all be lost somewhere, in a strange city we’ve never been to, and wander aimlessly, without an agenda, in search of new adventures. Maybe somewhere, in the midst of that wandering, we’ll reencounter our long lost inner child.

The Last Day

My last day spent as a 36-year-old was a stark contrast from my last day as a 35-year-old.

I spent my last week at age 35 bedridden due to a bicycle injury that prevented me from running for the remainder of 2021. On my last day at age 35, I dreamt of running, but struggled to leave my apartment.

In contrast, I spent my last week at age 36 running longer distances than I ever had in my life. With each run my right foot feels better, not worse. I often imagine myself running like a Kenyan, gliding over the Iten hills and along the top edges of the terrain’s escarpments. In my dream I possess the seemingly effortless fluidity of a Kenyan athlete. I snap from this vision and reality reminds me that I don’t have their running ability, but then again, arguably no one else does either.

Because I ran throughout my last week at age 36, I slept for as long as possible through my last day at age 36. I ate donuts and drank a brown sugar shaken espresso from Starbucks. In short, I indulged, and I don’t regret it in the slightest. I hadn’t indulged in awhile. I might as well be gluttonous on the last day.

I visited a doctor for a final evaluation of an elbow injury that I suffered from a bike crash about a month ago. The X-rays were negative. The elbow sprained, but it did not tear. No surgery is needed. Time will heal the elbow. It might be weeks, and it might be months, but it’ll heal. That news was a very nice birthday present.

I continue to heal the pinched nerves in both of my hands, remnants of overuse during a bike packing trip I embarked on two weeks ago. I’m still reflecting on that trip and will post more about it.

I think of these injuries and realize that even when I’m healing my foot, I seem to be injuring other body parts.

I am about to finish repairing my gravel bike. In that aforementioned crash last month, the bike’s front wheel bent and its derailleur, cassette, and hanger broke. Yet somehow I didn’t break. The doctor I visited told me I have strong bones. I think that’s true, but these crashes also add up over time. I don’t know if I have another crash in me.

“How are you feeling?” The bike shop manager asked me when I took my damaged bike in for a repair. He noted my scrapes, bruises, and swollen elbow. It was a question I don’t often get from anyone besides my immediate loved ones.

We always ask, “How are you doing?” This beckons the default answer, “Good.” I was surprised that someone would ask how I’m feeling.

“I guess I’m good today,” I said.

“I mean, how are you feeling mentally, after the crash? Are you okay? Because after my last crash, I was never the same again. I wasn’t the same cyclist.”

I was touched that someone cared to ask that. It had been awhile since a relative stranger showed care for my wellbeing. I absorbed it for a moment. Was I really okay? Am I?

“I think it might be time for me to only bike on trails and greenways,” I said. I took a deep breath. There was a sense of finality in my words.

“I reached the same conclusion after my last crash,” he replied. “I hope you feel better though and keep cycling.”

“I’ll definitely keep cycling,” I said. “Maybe not on roads though.”

I left the shop and looked out at the clusters of brick and mortar buildings, the gaunt sky, and the constantly flowing currents of traffic that carried with them the acrid scent of car exhaust.

36 is over. There’s no getting it back. I was flawed for that period of time and I’m flawed now, but hopefully I learned a few things through the passage of time. It was quite a journey.

I’m on to 37. I’ll wake up and go for a run. Mentally, I won’t be running through a concrete cluster before work. I’ll be in Kenya, gliding through a valley, or along an escarpment, as the sun crests over the horizon. Away from the screens and keyboard warriors of the sedentary west, and away from the common materialistic ambitions and plastic goals that inundate the office.

Miles from me, a lion will stalk its prey. I will steadily accelerate my pace; the village has long-been out of sight.

Running, and the Long Game

I’ve had a long and gradual running progression that began in late January and ended with a 10k event, the Summer Sizzler, last week. This phase lasted as long as it did partly out of a hellbent intent to overcome a foot injury from a year ago. I had one ambition this year: to not only heal my foot, but to run faster than I ever had before.

That’s about 7 straight months of running volume buildup. I decided the 10k race would be as good an event to end this “phase” of running as any. As July acceded to August, I realized that it was time to rest the running muscles.

The Summer Sizzler 10k took place at Forest Park in Saint Louis on a cool and balmy Saturday morning. My legs felt reasonably fresh, though I had raced a 3200 meter timed event just a few days before.

The runners gathered near the start as the announcer counted down to takeoff. The course directions seemed barely marked, with only a smattering of signs pointing which way; I hoped that I wouldn’t get lost. I settled near the front of the starting line, only allowing some younger runners (I later discovered both were under age 20) to start ahead of me.

The race started and I felt the exhilaration of being part of a large group embarking on a quest, an army of feet smacking against earth, bodies darting up and down park hills. There is an initial adrenaline rush that makes speed feel easy for the first kilometer or so.

About two miles in, I passed one of the two young males ahead of me. I sensed some of his fatigue and decided to take advantage by accelerating to a higher place. I had no real “race” goals, but knew quickly that I was already in second place, that a hundred people were behind me, and that the leader was 18 years my minor.

I kept the leader in my field of vision as my hamstrings and quads pushed me up a long hill that spanned the entire third mile. Eventually I noticed the leader slowing and I realized that he wasn’t running a 10k; he was only running a 5k and finishing for the day. I still had half of my race remaining. This also meant that I was firmly in the lead for the 10k.

I held my pace steady for the second half, only fading on the final uphill mile of the course, to claim a victory and pose proudly for the camera at the finish. I had something to be proud of: a year ago, I was not sure if I’d ever run again. Crazier yet, in college, my 10k timed run was about 56 minutes, and that was almost 20 years ago. On this day at Forest Park, one year after tearing several ligaments in my right foot, I clocked 39 minutes and won. I felt the closure from my foot injury that I desperately needed.

I am 17 minutes faster in a 10k than I was 20 years ago. Time is an illusion. That excites me more than any finish. I believe that I still have ample room for improvement. Regardless of how much improvement is in store, even if there is actually none left, I intend to keep running for many years into the future.

I remind myself that I am not striving to maximize my performance. I am in what I call “the long game.” The long game, for me, supersedes any “short-term outcomes.”

The “long game” goal has nothing to do with place, rank, or time. The aim is to continue having active adventures well into my 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s. I’d rather be the first centenarian to bike across Europe than a winner of any near-term race. I plan on signing up for plenty of events and having fun with all of them, but the long-game is where I set my sights.

Playing the long game helps put my exercise into perspective. So many people frown while they run, eyes glued to GPS watches, their banter mostly about boring adult things such as stride length and cadence.

All those things are relevant to running, certainly, but a soul tethered to a watch will inevitably miss the joy of gliding through summer air on two feet, for miles on end, possessing the ability to outlast every other animal on this earth with human endurance. It is the closest we can get to our ancestors as they persistence hunted their prey, running until their targets collapsed and their bodies crashed to the earth.

If affixed to a watch, how can one have the courage to accelerate madly downhill with a smile on the face and a childlike reckless mentality? Steady pace is the way of the watch. Steady pace can be boring, though it does have value in allowing for time to connect and chat with other people. There is no gambling, however, in steady pace. I think we need to gamble every so often. Still yet, the eyes that only see clocks will miss the wildlife that envelopes the environment.

In playing the long game one can appreciate longevity. I do not necessarily mean life longevity. How much exercise can actually extend lifespan is debatable (probably not as significant a factor on lifespan as our genetics). However, I do believe that the quality of our years spent on this planet can be extended. I’d rather be a 60-year-old still running like a 20-year-old than a 60-year-old struggling to mount a flight of stairs.

So the 10k was exciting. It was fun, it put me in a great mood, and it left me planning the next run. It brought back the adrenaline rush I always felt from competition. Winning and breaking 40 minutes were welcome surprises. To quote Ozzy Osborne, “I don’t wanna stop.”

But now that 10k is in the past. The medal I was awarded is a bit of history. Life moves on to the next event and the next adventure.

Right now, I’m resting the running legs for my birthday month and focusing on cycling. Running will pick up again in September.

Next week, to combat mortality and 37 years on planet earth, I will bike up the Eastern United States, from Virginia to Pittsburgh. It will take several days and hundreds of miles.

It’s the next adventure, and a relevant stage in the long game.

Chasing the Personal Best

I had a pretty nasty bike crash last week. I was zipping through downtown and encountered a construction zone near the Convention Center Plaza. I made a left turn for a detour, thinking the detour road would be mostly smooth pavement, only to have my front tire hit a jagged crevice in the tarmac. My bike went over sideways and I crashed on my right side.

Lesson learned: never assume the road ahead will provide a smooth ride.

I slid over the pavement and felt the road peel away the skin on my right leg. My elbow and hip collided against the street with a thud. I knew immediately it wasn’t a light crash. I wished that I had been watching the road more carefully.

I looked around and realized that I was alone on that street. It was the cusp of dawn and the sun’s climb toward the horizon had rendered the streets in shades of lavender and indigo. I levered myself up and attempted to limp back home while carrying my bike. My apartment was only three blocks away. The bike derailleur broke, as did the hanger and chain. The handlebar tape tore up. The bike and I broke together.

I limped home and showered off the blood, then bandaged myself up. I had no anger or regret: the crash already happened and there’s no rewind button on time.

As the hours ticked by, my right elbow went numb and I realized that it was sprained. The sprain was not as severe as the foot injury I suffered a year ago, but I also knew that it would take several weeks to heal. By nightfall, there was almost no mobility in the elbow.

I joked that because the higher powers couldn’t injure my feet while I ran, they decided to hand me the occasional bike crash. We all need setbacks, after all.

Because of the elbow injury, I was unable to bike the rest of the week. So, I ran while maintaining my right arm in a position that was awkward yet comfortable. Each day, a little mobility returned to the arm.

This week was supposed to be my “season ending” running week. I had scheduled a 1600 meter timed run and a 10k run. I wanted to see what progress I had made over the last year, since healing my ankle injury from 2021. It was not ideal to be nursing a bunch of scrapes and bruises, as well as a sprained elbow, this week.

I believe that the body and mind treat all stresses the same: as a gravitational push downward on performance. Whether these stresses are from injury, emotions, or heavy exercise, stresses are essentially quicksand. Stresses are what age us.

My 1600 meter run was Wednesday night and when I showed up at the track to warm up, I felt surprisingly light. I still felt elbow pain but also accepted it as a part of life. Shit happens. Things break and sprain. Sometimes you fully heal, sometimes you mostly heal, and unfortunately, sometimes you just don’t heal at all.

I decided to look for someone in the race that seemed fast and just try to hang with them. I noted a young college-aged male in my group and overheard him saying that he was aiming for some fast times. So, I decided to try and run behind him for as long as I could.

I crossed the first 1600 meters (about a mile) and saw that I ran it in 5 minutes and 20 seconds. That was faster than the fastest 1600 meter run of my life, and I still had another half of the run to go! By my own standards I was flying. I felt fresh and limber. The college guy was just one stride ahead of me. I was keeping up. Everyone else was far behind us.

It wasn’t until the final lap of the 3200 meter run that the college guy pulled ahead by a few seconds. However, I finished the run in 10 minutes and 50 seconds. It was by far the fastest run of my life. A “personal best.”

I shook the college guy’s hand (he went for a fist bump and I awkwardly went for a handshake, being the old fart that I am). I was thankful because it is competition that brings out the best in us. I never would have broken 11 minutes had he not set a good pace for me.

I’m nearing age 37 and appreciate now, more than ever, any sort of personal best time in an athletic event.

The elbow is healing. Maybe when I was 21 I’d feel anger and resentment about my crash. That is the advantage of the late 30’s. Whereas earlier in life there might be a certain paranoia over outcome and control, I’ve finally gotten to a point where I can say, “to hell with it, let’s just roll with the punches.”

My 10k is tomorrow and I think it’ll be fun. I did a 10k in college and my time was 56 minutes. I know I’ll be significantly faster than that. I’ll hit a personal best time, smile, and celebrate with some coffee.

And that’s life. You hit some crashes, you do your best to recover, and you gear up for the next race.

Let’s hope there’s a next race tomorrow.

Party Like It’s ‘99

On Wednesday I finally saw Rob Zombie live for the first time. He was my favorite solo artist in high school and I still listen to his hits from time to time.

Rob Zombie is immortal. He possesses more energy and vitality than lead singers half his age. He’s highly mobile throughout his show and rocks the dance moves of a lithe professional dancer. He’s a perennial headliner for a reason. Viewing the elaborate stage setup at his show is like glimpsing into another gothic world. His bandmates are also perfectionists. John 5, the lead guitarist, is possibly the most skilled soloist I’ve ever watched. The guy can flat-out shred.

Zombie is currently 57 years old and looks as lean and fit as ever. He’s also vegan and has been vegetarian since childhood. This is noteworthy to me because most long-lived cultures I read about eat a relatively large portion of natural carbohydrates and a relatively lower amount of meat (not all, but most). I am not vegan, but I often consider this.

What was my takeaway from watching my teenage idol perform at a crowded amphitheater in front of thousands of fans? Love what you do.

Do I love what I do? I find myself yearning for my hours when I’m free. I love cycling and have gained an appreciation for running. I love connecting with other runners and cyclists who share similar goals, who find themselves aging, yet are eager to accomplish physical feats that they never have before. But that’s not what I do.

An aspiring marathoner told me on our jog last week that he’s training to “give his son a story of something that he accomplished.” That’s what I enjoy learning about: people on their journeys, and how those journeys parallel my own. What can I learn from them? How many miles can we actually crank out together? What is our true limit on this planet?

“Love what you do.” Watching Zombie was a reminder that I need to write more and create more content.

Progression Run and Memories

I embarked on my weekly “long run” this morning a little before 7 am. Tomorrow is July 4th, Independence Day.

The run totaled 12 miles. I kept my pace in a low heart rate zone for the majority of the run; I’m mindful of the human tendency to overdo exercises. I accelerated the final 25 minutes of the run, but felt relatively fresh at the finish.

I prefer having the majority of my long runs in a low heart rate zone because I find myself in a meditative state while running at a prolonged low effort. My mind wanders. There are no thoughts of physical pain or fatigue. This pace is my “forever” zone. It is a pace in which time ceases to exist. My sights are on my environs, not the ground beneath me.

For a brief moment I thought about what I surprisingly miss from living in China (I’m staying in the US, but I did get a lot of value from my time in China). There are several things I admittedly miss, but I’ll only detail one of those things here: the struggle of it all. Through the struggle of figuring out how to persist in China, I found meaning.

The temperature, for example, was almost never ideal. In the summers I baked due to a lack of air conditioning. In the winters I froze due to a lack of adequate heating. And yet somehow I adapted (or attempted to as best I could). It was that adaptation that strengthened me.

In the return to a world utterly obsessed with perfect temperature regulation, I’ve found both comfort and a relative emptiness. The A/C puffs a cool breeze that both soothes my skin and drains my soul.

Every now and then I’ll turn off the air conditioning and let my apartment’s temperature shoot up to around 80 degrees Fahrenheit. I try to remind myself that it’s discomfort that spurs growth, not comfort. I’ll let myself sweat it out at night.

I find “discomfort experiments” such as this worthwhile because I am building up to some extreme endurance activities. Endurance running and cycling require the ability to withstand and understand discomfort. So, I try to disrupt the status quo here and there. I think back to my life in China. I try to resist the innate temptation to overcompensate with comfort.

In China, my struggles were also exciting. The struggle to communicate, the struggle to eat adequately, the struggle to adapt. They caused stress and yet they enlivened me. I miss those things and more. I don’t plan to return to China, but these struggles taught me valuable lessons.

My thoughts of China were brief and mixed with several other random reflections.

Another thought I had on my trail run regarded the animals I often cross on my path. I’ve seen a menagerie of wildlife: geese, turkey, robins, crows, squirrels, rabbits, possums, and even a family of beaver. There is something deeply satisfying in crossing paths with these animals. I’ve gained a better understanding of some species-specific behavior. I’ve had a better glimpse of the world as it was meant to exist, outside the vice grip of the city.

Turkey, for example, are much flightier than geese, which will often “stand their ground” defensively. The turkey take off running.

I suspect that distance running is really about connectedness. You can’t find that on a treadmill. It’s about experiencing the earth’s surface, developing a relationship with it, and finding connection with nature. A treadmill is more of a torture device. I can’t run on those things for the life of me. They lack fun in every sense of the word.

Tomorrow is Independence Day. For the sake of memories I’ll post a photo that was taken about 4 years ago. This one still feels like yesterday. I feel like the thrill of it all captures how I think of my time in China, in general: exhilarating, nauseating, unique, and brief enough to feel like a dream.

I rode this in China and then fought to avoid puking for an hour afterward:

The Need for a “What If”

I find myself needing a hypothetical “what if” in order to look forward to the future. That “what if” scenario is simple:

“What if my important accomplishment or action, which I was placed on this planet to fulfill, has not yet occurred?”

I find the need to posit this scenario because as a former elite athlete, it was easy to assume for the better part of a decade that my greatest accomplishment already transpired. This is a debilitating state of mind that ensnares many athletes because their athletic careers typically end well before the halfway marker of life.

I freed myself of this mental prison with a hypothetical question, and whether or not it’s true is inconsequential: “What if there is still a greater adventure ahead?”

I think of Bilbo Baggins and his reluctance to leave the safety of the Shire. After all, Gandalf reminds him, there is no guarantee of a safe return, or a return at all.

Yet something catalyzes Bilbo to embark on his greatest adventure and to eventually slay a dragon. He is about 50 years old when he leaves the Shire, which in theory would mark him well past his physical prime.

I am turning 37 soon. I spent the first quarter of age 36 learning to walk, and then run, again. As I embark on longer runs and longer bike rides I have no delusions of winning any sort of championships, nor do I care to.

There is, though, a unique excitement in knowing that I just ran or biked farther than I ever had in my life.

About a week ago I managed a long Sunday run of 15 miles (24 km). That was the longest run of my life, and I finished it feeling fresh. Today I biked a little more than 50 miles (80 km) without stopping. My “injured” foot remains in good health and I find myself feeling physically “lighter” than I have in the past.

Why do I feel lighter? Maybe the burden of expectations has finally been lifted from my spirit. Without it I’m free to experiment and fail.

I suspect that I have a lot of miles to run, and plenty of engine to run them. That’s why I signed up for my first full marathon, which will take place in April 2023. There’s plenty of time to build to it. I have a dream of running several. I’m in it for the long haul.

I don’t obsess over any sort of victory anymore, but I do feel a compulsion in my soul to finish my first marathon without stopping. Maybe it’s yet another form of my battle with my own mortality. Maybe I finally found the metaphorical dragon to slay, as Bilbo did. Or maybe the marathon is simply my “Gandalf”, my catalyst to introduce me to even better adventures ahead.

After all, why run roads when mountains are an option?

What if the best is yet to come?

7 Miles

Five days after completing a personal-best 5 mile run, I attempted a 7 mile run through downtown Saint Louis and the Gateway Arch park.

Mile one: Mostly uphill from the intersection at 13th and Olive to the Arch. I feel limber at the start and begin with a slow pace. Will the foot hold, I wonder?

Mile two: It’s a crisp 70 degrees F. I feel where I injured my right foot but the pain isn’t severe enough to stop. I remember what my physical therapist told me: “It’s healed enough that you can keep going as long as the pain never crosses, say, a 4 out of 10 on your pain threshold.” I don’t have any specific length of time or distance in mind as I run around the Gateway Arch. I don’t know what my goal is. I recall a scene from Forest Gump when he runs across the country: “Momma said you can’t run from you problems, but I tried.” Or something along those lines.

Mile three: I trot down a long open stairway at the park, down to the Mississippi River, and merge paths with the Mississippi River Greenway, which stretches north to the Chain of Rocks Bridge. “You can’t do this forever,” I recall someone telling me when I described my bikepacking trip last summer. “Maybe,” I respond, “but I can accept going longer than you.” I don’t give a damn about age or “what it’s supposed to tell you.” To hell with age I say. When you’re 20 and fit, people tell you, “Just wait until you’re 26, it’s so much more difficult!” When you’re 26 they tell you, “Just wait until you’re 30!” At 30, “Just wait until you’re mid-30s!” And in your mid-30s, “Just wait until your 40s!” I’ve done fine ignoring these admonitions. The day that I can’t is not today.

Mile four: I’m feeling a little lightheaded; maybe I should have eaten before I started. I had a light lunch, but that was hours ago. I’m sweating. I find myself surprisingly angry when recollecting my 5-mile run the week before. I was an angry competitor when I was a swimmer. It helped me win a world championship gold medal. I held off the Russian relay in the prelims so that Michael Phelps could do his “Phelps” thing in the finals. I was therefore the guy on the relay that “you never read about.” I find my old competitor creeping beneath the skin. I don’t know what use it still serves to get pissed off before competing against someone. I don’t even know where my world championship gold medal actually is. I left it with my parents years ago. They may have thrown it away by mistake when they downsized, following their retirement. Maybe I should call and ask. Eh, I don’t care. I don’t like holding onto those sorts of things. Tell me about what’s next. Tell me about the Arizona mountains.

Mile five: I’m running by a homeless camp and imagining how much it would take for me to collapse. I’ve read stories of runners who collapse near the end of races. I’ve experienced my limit in swimming. At what mile would I simply keel over?

Mile six: Back to the Gateway Arch. I have a slight pain in my left hip, a dull ache in my right foot, and my breathing is raspy. I practically hurdle myself back up the concrete steps, back to the park, and run around the park trail. What is my limit? Where do I aim to go? Even now I don’t have a mile marker; I can only assume that I want to bike across some of the craziest places this world has to offer. I need to be fit to do it. But really, why am I exercising like this? Because an object in motion stays in motion. I aim to keep moving. To stop is to die. And running is a nice counter to cycling. I realize that I still have not killed my old competitor. There is a part of me still visualizing “the race” and I can’t turn it off. I am a living paradox. It’s true that I don’t run with a pacer… but I still have a pace in mind.

Mile seven: an older jogger in the park attempts to pass me. I think about how it isn’t fair that he’s probably barely a mile into his run and I’m finishing mine. I want to curse but keep myself silent and focused. He doesn’t know that I’ve been out here a long time. Life isn’t fair, my mind counters. There are people who start their run before you and people who start their run after you. There are people with better knowledge of sports science than you are more access to cutting edge equipment, and there are people with less. I’m given what I’m given. Runs are never fair. I get my route, I’m grateful for it, and I do what I can with it.

I manage the mostly-downhill jog back to my apartment. The ache in my hip and foot increased slightly, but both are manageable. My calves are tight. I now run with barefoot-style shoes. I’m tired of needing cushion just to go for a run.

I take a walk around my apartment building. I’m happy, but not satisfied. Last fall, at the apex of my injury, there were days and weeks when walking once around the building with the help of a foot brace caused excruciating pain, and every limp forward made me feel increasingly defeated. I’m far from that memory now.

I look to the east and note that the moon is a stark outline against a sliver of fading orange sky. There are worlds within its dark demarcations. It’s beautiful. In my run frenzy, I could not appreciate it. Now I can, so I sit for awhile.

A Return to Running

I successfully completed the St. Patrick’s day run in Saint Louis this morning. The total distance was 5 miles (8 km). This was the first time I participated in an organized run in about 15 years (my last one was in college). It was also my first “long” run since my foot was injured last fall. I only wanted to finish the event, to prove to myself that months of healing and physical therapy for the foot had worked. A leisurely run would be acceptable. I was joined by a few friends, which helped my motivation and mood.

A cold front enveloped the city the night before and the temperature at takeoff was a bone-chilling 17 degrees F (minus 8 degrees C).

Mentally I told myself that I would start at a slow pace and gradually accelerate. However, a burst of adrenaline hit me when the race started and I quickly abandoned that plan.

The city was preparing a parade, after all, and some runners were sporting “Irish themed” garb such as kilts and leprechaun hats to add some fun.

Caught up in the excitement and fun of St. Patricks’s day, I started the run much more aggressively than I had planned. All hopes for a “gradual buildup” in speed went out the window.

I passed the first mile marker (1.6 km) and I heard my time called out: seven minutes and zero seconds.

Shit, I thought. I haven’t started a run within two minutes of that in years. In fact, I’m not sure that I’ve ever started a long-distance run that fast. I wasn’t out of breath, but I was breathing rapidly.

I started the race somewhere in the middle of the crowd, but as I fought to keep pace with some of the more arrogant-looking runners, I gradually neared the front of the pack.

However, my lungs were working at full capacity. What was supposed to be a fun and leisurely event would test my ability.

I turned left onto Market Street and the following mile was mostly uphill. My lungs were already in overdrive, though my injured foot felt fine. My breathing was loud and hoarse.

The second mile passed. 14 minutes. I was starting a 5-mile run at a faster pace than my fastest-ever 3-mile run. I couldn’t believe it. Due to a foot injury, I had only been running for a month following almost six months of only cycling.

After another half mile, my insulated layers of clothes caused my body to overheat. At the halfway mark I had to unzip my jacket and remove the hood, which was difficult to coordinate while running. I also wondered if and when I was going to fade. There is nothing worse than being passed by people at the end.

Mile three passed and the time announced was 21 minutes. My calves were tightening and my system was experiencing a unique cardiovascular strain that I hadn’t felt in at least ten years.

Hell, I thought. I just ran the fastest 5k of my life, and there’s still two miles to go.

I decided the time must have been incorrect. I am 36 years old and I just picked up jogging again in January following a car crash last August that almost caused permanent damage to my right foot.

The final two miles were on a road that I often cycle on. I know the road like the back of my hand, every every nook and cranny of it. From that three-mile marker, there is a long gradual descent for a mile, followed by a brief and steep incline, and finally a flat run to the finish. I figured I’d recover my energy on the descent and then sprint the uphill climb.

I hit 4 miles and regained a little vigor from the mostly-downhill jog. 28 minutes. A flat 7 minutes per mile and just over 4 minutes per kilometer. Personal uncharted territory. In college my best 10k running time was 56 minutes. I was always a swimmer, not a runner.

This meant that I was running almost 25% faster than my fastest pace from my college years, 15 years later, following a year of almost no running at all.

I could barely enjoy the festivities on the side of the road because I needed all of my energy to finish the run at my current pace. I gave a guy with a giant green foam hand a “high five” as I rounded a corner, but I could barely even muster that. I needed to save every breath I could.

I crossed the finish line at 35 minutes, which is far faster than any run of that distance I’ve ever taken. I also know that I can eventually run much, much faster. That was just my first run of the year, and my first 5-mile completion since last August.

In the moment I felt pretty damn triumphant. Not bad for an ex-swimmer who spends most of his free time cycling (and sometimes skateboarding).

Not to mention that the night before I drank a hefty portion of wine and ate a box of pizza.

Today was an excellent starting point for my return to running. The experience was also fitting for St. Patrick’s day because I am part Irish. After the run, my friends and I had a beer to celebrate. We stayed out in the cold for as long as it felt comfortable (which was awhile because of how much the run heated us).

Now I’m propped up on the couch. I’ll be sore tomorrow, but this day is mine!

I’m the tall one. Beer has never tasted better.